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October 29 Saturday Bicycle touring from St Eustache Quebec to the Mirabelle airport to Paris France Up before the crack of dawn. We cycle toward Mirabelle airport. Sharon wants to take the freeway (we're not allowed on it). I convince her we have plenty of time to go around the way that's indicated for cyclists. As we cycle into the next town, there's a sign at a restaurant for a breakfast special: .99¢. Can you believe it? I have to stop and check it out. It's 7:30 AM. But the door is locked and no lights are on. Should we wait? There's no hours posted. I read an English newspaper that has been delivered. A lady walks up the street. She unlocks the door. "What time do you open?" I ask. "Seven o'clock," she sheepishly admits. "May we come in?" I ask, not sure after being locked out of the laundromat last night. The special is coffee, two eggs, hash browns, and toast. I order two. A great way for touring cyclists to start the day and finish our cycle tour in Canada. Our next stop is a park where we consume baked goods, cereal, milk, and fruit that we purchased last night. Sharon got a bit carried away, trying to spend the last of our Canadian bills, like we were never going to return or something. We have $13 left and $2.75 in small coins. We pick up a bike path to the airport. I cycle slowly as I don't want to sweat. Nothing like sitting on a six-hour plane flight next to stinky underarms. Of course, it's worse when they're not mine. We cycle in a great loop around the airport and view it from all four directions. We finally arrive at noon, after having covering fifty kilometres. Not bad, considering we were ten kilometres away when we left camp this morning. Our flight is at 6:40 PM. We go to a desk to pick up our tickets. We are told we can't pick them up until 3:30. Over there. I ask again later when someone new comes on and I am told the same thing. We sit on a bench outside and eat some more. Sharon cleans her bike and checks out her wheel wobble. The cones are loose again. Probably the bearings are shot (they're sealed and 15 years old with a lot of bicycle touring miles on them) and they need to be replaced, or worse, her axle might be busted. The airport is devoid of life. An old crossing guard paces back and forth at a pedestrian crossing, holding up his hand when people need to cross. Hard on tourism when the tourists get run over. At 3:30 all hell breaks loose. Several buses pull up and hordes of people spill out onto the sidewalk, onto our bench, and into a suddenly materialized lineup for Paris. Maybe we should get ready? I didn't expect this milieu. We turn our handlebars sideways and attempt to remove our pedals. No go. Which way do they turn again anyway? Sharon gives them a shot of LPS. We finally manage, with our little crescent wrench, to loosen Sharon's pedals. My pedals are frozen tight. We stand on the pedal opposite and lean all our weight on the wrench. One loosens. The other still refuses to budge. We notice an iron railing beside us and stick the opposite pedal under it. Sharon jumps on the wrench. I'm afraid to look because I think my crank arm is going to bust before that pedal loosens. But it loosens. I heave a sigh of relief. We take our bicycle touring panniers inside. I go and buy wrapping tape and tape our panniers and sleeping bags together. The limit is sixty pounds per piece. Mine weighs 58 pounds, Sharon's 55. We're told we have to take our bikes and stand in line. We go to the very end of the very long line. Sharon is holding onto both bikes. I have our unwieldy packages barely balancing on a cart. Just before we get to the check-in, a child touches them and they all fall off in an embarrassing clatter. Luckily, no one is permanently damaged. The check-in girl weighs each piece and then suggests we get them shrink-wrapped for $3 each. And, we discover our tickets aren't at this counter like we were told. She sends me back to the desk where I asked for the tickets previously -- twice. This time, the same clerk I had previously asked, slides open a drawer, produces an envelope and hands it to me. Back at the check-in I ask for a bike bag. The check-in girl says they don't have any. I tell her they told me in the other line up they do have them for $5 each. We had planned on putting our bicycle touring panniers in a bike bag and not getting any for our bikes as they scratch and dent them anyway. She finds bags. But she won't let us put our panniers in them and again points to the shrink-wrap person. I decide not to take the bike bags and send the bikes uncovered. I wheel my unsteady load of pile-high panniers over to the shrink-wrap man. He does an excellent job, even putting handles on for easy carrying. They are much more secure and manageable now. I wheel them back over to check them through. The check-in girl now tells me I must purchase bike bags for our bikes. Huh? Wasn't she the one, who moments before, had told me they didn't even have bike bags? She sends me over to another cashier to pay and instructs me to come back, show her the receipt, and then she will return my two bikes, I will put the bag on them, and then hand the bagged touring bicycles back to her. At the cashier I ask what is going on. Earlier, staff had told me I didn't have to buy a bag, it was my choice. At check-in, first, she told me they had no bike bags. Now, I'm told I have to spend $10 on bike bags. "They're better for your bike, sir," she says. "No, they're not," I say. "I've flown before and my bike got scratch and dented with one anyway." "You don't want them?" "No." "Okay." I walk away. I'm part-way back to where Sharon is still waiting in the check-in lineup when the cashier comes running over and catches up to me. "You have to take them," she says. "They keep other people's luggage from getting damaged." "Then you should give them to me for free," I say. "You don't want them?" "No," I say. "Fine," she says. "Good," I say. "Then I won't send your bikes!" she says. "Two bags," I say. Sheesh. I should have got the bikes shrink-wrapped for $3 bucks each. After telling me that the bike bag protects my bike she makes me sign a form absolving them of any responsibility in the event of damage. Sharon says I shouldn't knock it -- at least they didn't charge us extra for our bikes like on domestic flights. I am glad I only do this flying thing once every couple years or so. Our flight has been delayed an hour. We check into the boarding area. We sit by the X-ray area for entertainment. It is fun to watch people hassle the guards. We often hear "Not my problem, Madame." As I watch people go through, I tell Sharon I think the French men are quite a bit more effeminate than North American men in general. She says it is my imagination. Just as she says this, she turns in time to see a man go running by on his tippy-toes. We both start to laugh. We check through the boarding area onto a waiting bus with a hydraulic body and are transported to the plane. We're off. On our way to Paris's Orly airport. It is 8 PM. We get supper. The air is turbulent. I have my headband and I slip it over my eyes to block out the light, and insert my earplugs to block some of the din of rushing air, motor drone (we're sitting next to the wing), and people talking. The cabin lights come back on. Breakfast is something that resembles watery egg muffins. There is a six hour time difference between Quebec and France. We hit more turbulence. The plane is rocking and creaking. Hold together baby. The pilot lands smoothly. The passengers break out in applause. Sharon and I look at each other and laugh. |
